Meg Cabot Princess Mia
For Amanda Maciel, with love and thanks
“Ah, yes, your royal highness,” she said. “We are princesses I believe. At least one of us is.”
Sara felt the blood rush up into her face. She only just saved herself. If you were a princess, you did not fly into rages.
“It’s true,” she said. “Sometimes I do pretend I am a princess. I pretend I am a princess so I can try to behave like one.”
A LITTLE PRINCESS
Frances Hodgson Burnett
Content
Epigraph
Begin Reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Meg Cabot
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Friday, September 10, 9 p.m., Beauty and the Beast, Lunt-Fontanne Theater, ladies’ lounge
He hasn’t called. I just checked with Mom.
I don’t think it’s completely fair of her to accuse me of believing the entire world revolves around my breakup with Michael. Because I don’t. Really. How was I supposed to know she’d just gotten Rocky down for the night? She should turn off the ringer if he’s turning into that much of a problem sleeper.
Anyway, there were no messages.
I guess I shouldn’t have expected there to be. I mean, I checked on his flight, and he’s not due to arrive in Japan for another fourteen hours.
And you aren’t allowed to use cell phones or PDAs while you’re actually in the air. At least, not for calls or text messaging.
Or answering e-mails.
But that’s okay. Really, it is. He’ll call.
He’ll get my e-mail and then he’ll call and we’ll make up and everything will go back to the way it was.
Ithas to.
In the meantime, I just have to go on as if things were normal. Well, as normal as things can be while waiting to hear back from your boyfriend of two years with whom you’ve broken up, but to whom you sent an apology e-mail because you realized you were completely and unequivocably wrong.
Especially since if you don’t get back together you know you’ll only live a sort of half life and be destined to have a series of meaningless relationships with supermodels.
Oh, wait. That’s my dad. Never mind.
But, you know. It’s me, too. Minus the supermodels.
WatchingBeauty and the Beast tonight with J.P. has made me realize how completely stupid I’ve been this past week.
Not that I hadn’t realized it already. But the show hasreally driven it home.
Which is especially weird, since Michael and I have never exactly seen eye to eye on the theater. I mean, I could barely get Michael togo with me to see the kind of shows I like, which are primarily ones involving girls in hoop skirts and things that fly down from the ceiling of the theater (such asThe Phantom of the Opera andTarzan: The Musical ).
And on the few occasions he DID go with me, he spent the whole time leaning over and whispering, “I can see why this show is closing. No guy would really stand around singing to a talking teapot about how much he likes some girl. You know that, don’t you? And where is the full orchestra supposed to be coming from? I mean, they’re in a dungeon. It just doesn’t make any sense.”
Which I used to think actually ruined the whole experience. As did Michael’s excusing himself every five minutes to go to the men’s room on the pretense of having drunk too much water at dinner. But really he was just checking for World of Warcraft alerts on his cell phone.
But even though I’m having a nice time here with J.P. and all, I can’t help wishing Michael were here to complain thatBeauty and the Beast is just a cheesy Disney musical targeted at little kids, who are hardly discriminating viewers, and that the music’s really bad and the whole thing is just to get the tourists to spend money on expensive T-shirts, sippy cups, and glossy theater programs.
It’s especially sad he’s not here, because I realized tonight that the story ofBeauty and the Beast is really the story of Michael and me.
Not the beauty part (of course). And not the beast part, either.
But the part about two people who start out being friends and don’t even realize they like each other until it’s almost too late….
That is totally us.
Except, of course, that Belle is smarter than I am. Like, would it really have mattered to Belle if the Beast, back before he ever held her captive in his castle, had hooked up with Judith Gershner, then failed to mention it?
No. Because that all happened BEFORE Belle and the Beast found each other. So what difference did it make?
Exactly: none.
I just can’t believe how stupid I’ve been about all this. I swear, even as cheesy as it is—and, okay, I have to admit, I can see the cheese factor in it now—Beauty and the Beasthas brought new clarity to my life.
Which shouldn’t be all that surprising since it is, after all, a tale as old as time.
Anyway, I know in the past I’ve said my ideal man is one who can sit through an entire performance ofBeauty and the Beast , the most romantic and beautiful story ever told, and not snicker in the wrong places (such as when the Beast is undergoing his onstage transformation into the Prince, or when the fake stuffed wolves come on—well, they can’t make them TOO scary, since there are little kids in the audience).
But now I realize that the only guy I’ve ever attended the show with who has passed that test is J.P. Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth. He even—I couldn’t help noticing—had a single tear trickling down his cheek during the scene where Belle valiantly exchanges her own life for her father’s.
Michael has never cried during a Broadway show. Except in that scene where Tarzan’s ape father is brutally murdered.
And that was only because he was laughing so hard.
But here’s the thing: I’m starting to think that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I think guys just might bedifferent from girls. Not just because they actually care about things like whether or not there’ll ever be aNightstalkers movie starring Jessica Biel reprising her role as Abby Whistler fromBlade: Trinity .
Or because they think it’s okay to sleep with Judith Gershner and never mention it to their girlfriend because it happened before they started going out.
But because they are justprogrammed differently. Like to be unmoved by the sight of a guy in a gorilla suit getting pretend-shot onstage.
Whereas they completely believe that scene in the movieNotting Hill where Julia Roberts’s character goes back to that guy played by Hugh Grant, even though in a million years a snotty movie star like that would never fall for a lowly bookstore owner.
And I say that as a princess who is in love with a college student.
The thing is, I finally get it now: Guys are different than we are.
But that’s not always a bad thing. In fact, as my ancestors would say,Vive la différence. Because, okay, a lot of guys don’t like musicals.
But those same guys might also give you a snowflake necklace for your fifteenth birthday to represent the Nondenominational Winter Dance where you first declared your love for each other.
Which, you have to admit, is way romantic.
Oh. The lights just flickered. It’s time to go back to my seat for the second act.
Which, truthfully, I’m not really looking forward to. It would be all right if J.P. didn’t keep asking me if I was all right.
I totally get that he’s concerned about me as a friend and all, but what does he expect me to say? How can he not know that the answer is no, I’mnot all right? Do I need to remind him that not two nights ago I idiotically ripped OFF that snowflake necklace and THREW it at the guy who gave it to me? Does he think you just automatically rebound from something like that, just because you are attending a musical with dancing teacups in it?
J.P. is totally sweet, but he’s a little clueless sometimes.